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"Chrysanthemum daydream"

 by Kenzie Boney

Editor's note: This poem, by any means, is not meant to romanticize suicide, rather critique feelings of loneliness, paralysis and hopelessness that often come into existence when one experiences depression, anxiety and/or other mental health illnesses.

And what her mind cannot seem to grasp 

or comprehend on this tragic, serene planet 

is that it is okay to be afraid 

of the demons beneath her sheets, 

and lie weeping, 

bare flesh pressed against 

the cold marbled tiles 

on the bathroom floor.

It is 3:07 in the morning 

and the faint smells 

of rosemary and vanilla

burn from the wick of a candle.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Salty crystalline tears

fall slowly down her pale,

bruised cheeks. And the monsters

that lurk in the depths of her mind,

and under the creaky frame of her

childhood bed run the

crystalline liquid crimson.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The bath must be confused,

for the murky water

is now a deep and damned

shade of the most beautiful reds.

She is me, and as I look down at my wrists

the lifeline pours out faster and with force.

This isn't how I wanted it to end. What am I doing?

What am I doing? I always envisioned my body

falling from the San Francisco bay bridge, fully

encapsulated by the gray hues of an unknown

city's lust, as my body plunges further and

further into the hungry and relentless waters.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It is 3:07 in the morning and an unsettling queasiness erupts

in the pit of my stomach; forcing my body to vomit the $5 bottle

of Pinot Grigio and cherries I devoured in an effort to dilute my

thoughts from ever making love to you. For a brief moment of

contemplating why I ever wanted to rid my body and mind 

of you, I accidentally purged my existence.

And all that's left is my fragile shelf,

carelessly floating about in the tub.

Kenzie Boney is an Editor-in-Chief of Birdie.
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